Diadem from the Stars

by Clayton, Jo;

  “How did you know they were Vrya ships?”

  “Ha! No mistaking them … you wouldn’t understand.” He pulled his hands from behind his head, staring into the palms. “God, I’d give my … never mind.” He grinned wryly. “Damn bastards go where they want, when they want, like they owned the whole damn galaxy. People say—”

  “They say … they say … don’t you know anything yourself?”

  “Quiet, cat, you asked me.” He unfolded a long arm and cupped his hand beneath her chin. “So listen.”

  She pulled his hand away. “All right. Go on. But hurry.”

  “The Vrya are traders. They swoop down on a world and carry off whatever they want and they always want the beautiful and unique, creations born out of the sweat of genius.” His voice went soft again. “They come and take priceless things.…”

  Aleytys touched him on the arm; he jumped and looked annoyed, as if she’d pulled him from a pleasant dream. “What do they trade?” she asked. “Or are they just bigger and better thieves than you?”

  “Oh, they trade.” His gaze grew even more abstracted while his fingers closed into tight greedy fists. “Constructs. Machines to do anything you want. It’s almost a sin to call them machines. If you want to—” He stopped and groped for words. “This damn impossible language! If you want … to change the face—yes, face—of a whole world and shape it closer to your desire, a Vryhh’ll make a construct to do it—a thing small enough to fit in the palm of your hand, I’ve seen one—if you have something he wants. Want a construct to weave or build or make. Ask, and a Vryhh’ll make it … if you have something he wants. And if you can find him.” He rubbed a long finger over his moustache. “A few fools tried to take the constructs apart to see how they worked.” He chuckled. “They stopped being fools and became corpses. I had something the Vrya might have wanted, but I lost it.” His hands closed again, squeezing until the knuckles went white with pressure, while his eyes closed to glittering slits as he frowned at her.

  Aleytys watched the lurid sunlight pouring in red floods through the leaves. She turned her head slowly and examined his face. His nose jutted like the beak of a bird of prey.

  “Vrya have been followed”—his voice was soft and he spoke each word slowly, rolling it over his tongue as if he liked the taste of it—“fooled, coerced, but they’re a sneaky, devious unpredictable bunch of bastards. Men have bragged of finding Vrithian, but they’re liars.”

  “What do Vrya look like?” Once again her voice jerked him from his daydream and he grimaced. “You asked me about my love,” she said quietly. “So I thought you must have seen some of them.”

  He scratched the loose skin off his nose as he examined her. “A little fairer and you could pass for one, though …” He peered into her face. “Your eyes are a shade too blue. I saw a Vryhh woman once—not too close, I was where I definitely shouldn’t have been—in the course of professional activity. She had red hair, green eyes, and the most unbelievable skin. Like yours, but fairer, milk-white. They say they’re all the same, red hair, green eyes, white skin. I heard an old man tell of seeing the same woman once when he was a boy just past puberty, and again some eighty years later. He was old but she hadn’t changed at all. Who knows, he could have been senile.”

  Aleytys rubbed her back against the tree trunk, broke off a raushani branch, and fanned it back and forth in front of her, stirring up the stifling air.

  Stavver narrowed his eyes and stared at her, a speculative glint in his roving gaze.

  Abruptly Aleytys curved her mouth into a mirthless smile. “Khateyat told me not to trust you.” She shrugged. “What the hell, what can you do? I’m half Vryhh. My mother, sweet lady, abandoned me before I could walk, but she had an attack of conscience and left me instructions on how I could come to her. So, you help me and I’ll get you to Vrithian.”

  He sat very still, eyes fixed on her. After a minute, he swallowed and sucked in a deep unsteady breath. “Why?”

  “You’ve got friends … out there?” She jerked her head at the sky. “Who’d come here for you if you could call them?”

  “Yeah, there are a few I could call.”

  “Do you know about a Romanchi trader? Could you use its … its machinery to call someone to take you off this world?”

  “A Romanchi!” He jerked up and leaned toward her. “You know where to find a Romanchi?”

  “I think so. It brought my people here a long time ago. My mother said it should still be where it landed. She found the logbook in the library of the Mari’fat … that’s a guildhouse in my valley where we keep records. I had it, but lost it getting here. But I remember what she said in her letter. If I take you there, will you take me with you when you leave?”

  “Of course,” he said smoothly.

  “You’d leave me in a minute, you don’t fool me, thief.” She laughed. “But just remember this, let it sink in deep. I can get you to Vrithian. So keep hold of me, thief; take very good care of me.”

  He scanned her face, his shrewd gray eyes narrow slits in his peeling face. “You’ve got the coordinates of Vrithian?”

  “No, of course not. There’s a way, but I’m the key.” She stood up. “You’d better get back to camp, slave. It’s time to strike the chon and fill the water barrels.”

  3

  The huge wheeled wagons left the river where it curled toward the north. Followed by the grazing herd, the medwey clan struck out into the empty rolling prairieland through day after unchanging day while Aleytys merged herself quietly into the Shemqya household, carefully avoiding Stavver and keeping away from Raqat. As the days passed, placid on the surface with their lack of overt event, she began to comprehend some of the undercurrents, noting the rivalry between her patronesses, the witches, and the male aspect of medwey magic, Thasmyo, the Khem-sko. She settled down to the slow, uneventful progress across the undulating sea of grass, growing placid and contented as one of the yd’r cows, her baby rounding but her waistline more and more as the hot quiet days slid past.

  4

  The sesmat lay on the ground and whimpered. A swelling just above her left forefoot trailed a thin thread of sluggish blood. N’frat knelt at her mount’s head, tears streaming down her face. Khateyat bent down and touched her shoulder. “N’fri, you know what has to be done. When sarket bites there’s nothing we can do.”

  With a hoarse sob, N’frat stood up, turning her face into Khateyat’s shoulder, her whole body shaking with the grief that tore through her. Khateyat looked over the top of her head. “Shanat … R’eShanat, do what is necessary.”

  “Wait.” Aleytys walked around the herret and touched Khateyat on her arm. “I think I can help.”

  “Leyta.” Khateyat shook her head, a warning dark in her eyes. “It would be better …”

  “I know and I wouldn’t interfere, except I do think I can help.”

  “Help?” N’frat wiped her eyes. “Help, Leyta?”

  “Yes. But quickly.” She looked steadily at Khateyat. “The poor creature’s dying. Will you permit that I try to heal her, has’ hemet?”

  Khateyat returned the look. “Be sure you know what you’re doing.” Her troubled face warned Aleytys without any need for words that she must not fail.

  Aleytys knelt beside the animal and placed her hands over the wound, letting the healing force flow out through her fingers while the black waters swirled around her, pouring through her so that she forgot the intrusion of the diadem, forgot everything but the pain of the animal she touched. She gasped with pain as the terrible poison kicked back at her, but sank her teeth into her bottom lip and hung on to fight the destruction of the venom. She would not let go. She refused to let go. For Zavar, she thought, for Vajd, for N’frat. Tears began to squeeze from under her hot eyelids.

  Then the burning was gone. She opened her eyes and uncramped her aching fingers. When she looked down, she saw that the swelling was gone. There wasn’t even a scar on the leg.

  The sesmat twitched and sur
ged to her feet. She pawed at the ground, jerked her head, looked around out of bright eager eyes. Aleytys laughed with delight. Then she tried to get up, almost falling as her knees gave way. With a little gasp N’frat was beside her, helping her stand. Khateyat took her other arm and steadied her.

  “You have our gratitude, R’eAleytys yeyati. You’ve done what we could not.” Khateyat glanced briefly at Raqat’s glowering face, saw Myawo frowning beyond the circle of women. “You’d better rest a while, Leyta,” she said quietly. “N’fri, go with her.”

  “Leyta, Leyta, how do I thank you.…” N’frat slid a hand under her arm to help support her. Looking over her shoulder, she called to R’prat. “Take care of Shenti for me.”

  “Sure.” R’prat took hold of the mare’s bridle and led her off.

  “Come on, Leyta. You haven’t put up your chon yet, have you? You just sit and I’ll throw it up for you.”

  “Thanks, N’fri.” Aleytys tottered off, leaning on the young Shemqya’s shoulder.

  Raqat watched with smoldering angry eyes. “Intruder,” she spit.

  Khateyat wheeled. “R’eRaqat,” she snapped. “You let your hate make you unjust. Feel shame that you can’t appreciate a generous act.”

  Raqat stared sullenly at the ground. She kicked at a tuft of grass and slammed off without a word. Shanat trotted after her.

  Khateyat sighed. Kheprat touched her on the shoulder. “It proceeds,” she said sadly. “There’s nothing you can do, Khatya. She has chosen her road and will walk it to her own destruction.”

  “It proceeds.” Khateyat shook her head. “Why … why can’t she see the thief for what he is? Why can’t she see the woman as she is? Leyta’s a good little thing. I like her, Khepri. She’s got courage, generosity, even a little wisdom; much for her age.”

  Kheprat smiled, her blind eyes glinting whitely as she shifted her head. “We live with it, Khatya, like the sun that burns and the wind that dries. Raqat has always been flawed. We both saw it long ago. Perhaps it’s better, though I hurt to say it. She would have been dangerous to the Zabyo. Now, perhaps … I don’t know. But it’s no failure of yours, sister.”

  Once again Khateyat sighed. She patted Kheprat’s hand. “We had best get our chon up, too.”

  5

  Aleytys jumped as the hand came down on her shoulder. She swung around. “Stavver!” Closing her eyes, she thrust out an arm and steadied herself by grasping his shoulder. “You nearly scared me white-headed.” She looked hastily around. “Get out of here. I don’t want my eyes scratched out.”

  “You forgot the river already?” His voice was deep and caressing, while his hands flicked over cheeks, the points of her shoulders, the tips of her breasts, waist, groin, lighting fires inside her.

  “Madar!” She twisted away. “Are you crazy, fool?”

  “Crazy about you, witch.”

  She glanced quickly around at the thin screen of scrubby, stunted trees. “Look, all right, when you touch me, my knees go weak. I may be a woman in that, but I’m not a fool. Why do you think I’ve been keeping away from you? I start trouble, they throw me out. I’m dead. Dead!” She looked nervously around again. “Go, get out of here!”

  “Deal?”

  “What?” She pushed the tickling wisps of hair off her forehead.

  “I’ll go away now if you come to my chon tonight.”

  “You are crazy. Certainly not.”

  He slid his arm around her waist and pulled her into a stumbling walk toward the camp. Aleytys struggled, hissing angrily through her teeth. “Better be quiet, love,” Stavver said coolly.

  “All right, all right.” She kicked at his shins. “But you come to me.” She wriggled around and kicked at him again. “Let me go, or I’ll bite, fool.”

  “Now, isn’t that better?” He let go of her and stepped back. “I’ll be there soon as camp’s dark.”

  She shook her head. “Be careful, will you? It’s my life you’re fooling around with. What about Raqat? Won’t she be wanting you?”

  He shrugged. “She’s bleeding. Won’t let me near her a few days.”

  “She could still check up on you.”

  “No, sweet. She can’t go near any man when she’s in blood. She doesn’t dare. She sits all bundled up in her chon and stays in the herret all day. If her shadow touches a man she has to be beaten and go through purification. If she breathes on a man, she’s killed. So she won’t be out. We’re safe.”

  Aleytys gave a faint shiver of distaste. “Ahai, you make it sound so sordid.”

  “That’s life, little cat.”

  “Well,” she snapped. “It won’t happen next month. You’ll have to find yourself another bed-warmer.”

  “Now, love …”

  “Done call me love, you … you af’i!” She pulled away from him; “I won’t have it.” She laughed fiercely as she edged toward the trees. “Next month I’ll be too damned pregnant for you to touch.”

  “Too bad. Then we just have to make the best of what we’ve got.” He grinned at her. “See you tonight.”

  6

  Horli hung a hot red circle behind Aleytys with blue Hesh a scorching boil on her right side. Wisps of the hydrogen ring joining the two pasted gold glints on the fuzzy red. Behind the herretwe, the yd’rwe spread out into the ragged crescent throwing up a haze of dust as they edged over the land, grazing as they walked. The wagons were pulling farther and farther ahead as the bottom edge of Horli cleared the flat horizon line.

  Aleytys walked beside the pacing team of yd’rwe pulling the Shemqyaten herret, keeping the leaders in line with the side rein attached to a halter. Just ahead of her the wagons of the haryo-tep rumbled over the wiry grass and just behind, in unspoken and unbroken order, followed the herretwe of the other septs of the clan.

  Her moccasins, laced high on the ankles, swished along step by step, putting the miles behind her. Her sleeveless tunic and leather trousers were packed neatly in a small leather hon Khateyat had given her and now she wore the traveling gear of the medwey: long loose trousers of coarsely woven cloth, dyed deep scarlet, gathered in at the ankles to keep the dust out; a tunic blouse with a high gathered neck and wide loose sleeves that reached to her knuckles, scarlet to match the trousers; a white headcloth clamped to her head with knotted scarlet cords.

  She paced placidly along in a kind of mindless glow. Behind her, so much in her ears that she had ceased to notice it, came the rolling thunder of the hundreds of yd’rwe hooves and a crunching sound as tongues tore up mouthfuls of tough, wiry grass bleached a pale yellow by the suns. Step. Tear. Step. Tear. Stride by stride, mouthful by mouthful, the herd moved along, covering nine to ten stadia each day.

  Aleytys’s shadow stretched out ahead of her, slowly shrinking as the twin suns moved hour by hour up the curve of the sky. She felt fit and strong, contented, a little like one of the yd’r cows. Sweating, hot, dusty, heavily pregnant, she walked beside the animals and rejoiced in the smooth sliding of her muscles and the strength flowing in her body. Underfoot, the springy grass pressed up against the thinning leather of her moccasins, living grass pressing up from the source of life, the flesh and bones of the world. Aleytys vibrated to the almost tangible forces streaming up through her feet from the elemental Jaydugar.

  “Leyta.”

  She lifted her head, pushing back the edges of the fringed headcloth. “N’frat?”

  The shaggy sesmat bobbed her triangular head over Aleytys’s shoulder. She scratched the mare’s nose. “Shenti,” she chuckled. On the sesmat’s back N’frat peered anxiously down at her. “Do you want to ride in the herret for a little, Leyta?”

  Aleytys blinked lazily. “No,” she said, her voice slow and dreamy. “I feel fine, N’fri. Anyway”—she nodded back at the suns—“it’s only an hour or so till we have to stop for high heat. How long till water?”

  N’frat fiddled with the reins. “After the stop, ride, Leyta. You’ll need your strength.” She pressed her lips together, her young face full of
trouble. “We aren’t going to camp tonight. We’ll be moving all night.”

  Frowning slightly, Aleytys examined her face, then said, “But”—she waved a hand at the yd’rwe—“the herd, that won’t be good for them, Will it?” The lead rein jerked her attention away for a minute. She pulled the straying animals back in line, then turned back to N’frat. “Aren’t we supposed to reach water tonight? Srima said something like that this morning. At least I remember …”

  “Poisoned.” N’frat’s face turned hard. “The Khem-sko rode ahead to check it and found a family group of ghekhsewe dying there from the water. He sent a boy back and went on to the kedya-water. We’ll get there tomorrow and we’ll hold ch’chyia to search out the bwobyan who did it.” Her set, angry face softened. She smiled at Aleytys. “You be sure and ride. I’ll take the chanerew.” She clicked her tongue and the sesmat loped ahead to join the group of Shemqyatwe.

  Alevtys kicked unhappily at the grass. Poisoned the water. The ultimate crime in this dry grassland. Her mouth twisted. I’ll start believing in my curse after all, she thought. Everything I touch …

  The wagons were silent that night, none of the whistletalk and laughter that usually accompanied the march. The only noises in the tense, angry silence were the miserable bawling and the occasional grunting roars from the harassed animals. They wanted to lie down and rest. The calves wanted to suck. As the night progressed they began to bawl constantly as their stomachs cramped and their bodies passed from tiredness to exhaustion. One after another the calves lagged behind or fell under the trampling feet of the adults. Aleytys lay in the herret and shivered as the plaintive blats of the abandoned calves echoed along her sensitive nerves until she lay in a shaking heap, hands pressed over her ears.

  The march trailed on and on, a nightmare of heat and noise as the second day began, but just before high heat the weary and irritated herd plowed into a shallow lake and sucked up huge gulps of the muddy water. Aleytys climbed out of the wagon and stretched her cramped limbs. All along the line of march she could see the circling vultures. She turned reluctantly toward the herd, her mouth tightening in a grim line as she marked the thin scattering of calves.